Fresh adrenaline blasted through me.
I raised the gun.
Majerick closed in.
I sited on the white triangle.
Fired.
The explosion echoed brutally loud. The concussion knocked my hands up, but I held position.
Majerick dropped.
In the dimness I saw the triangle go dark. Knew crimson was spreading across it. A perfect hit. The Triangle of Death.
Silence, but for my own rasping breath.
Then my higher centers caught up with my brain stem.
I’d killed a man.
My hands shook. Bile filled my throat.
I swallowed. Steadied the gun and stole forward.
The girl lay motionless. I squatted and placed trembling fingers on her throat. Felt a pulse, faint but steady.
I swiveled. Gazed at Majerick’s mute, malevolent eyes. Did nothing.
Suddenly I was exhausted. Revolted by what I’d just done.
I wondered. In my state, could I make good decisions? Carry through? My phone was back at the house.
I wanted to sit, hold my head in my hands, and let the tears flow.
Instead I drew a few steadying breaths, rose, and crossed what seemed a thousand miles of darkness. Climbed the stairs on rubbery legs.
A single passage cut right at the top. I followed it to the only closed door.
Gun tight in one clammy hand, I reached out and turned the knob with the other.
The door swung in.
I stared into pure horror.
THE SCENE STILL haunts me. Will the rest of my life.
The room held four girls. Their hair was tangled and dirty. One wore only a long dirty sweatshirt. The others weren’t dressed like pastors’ wives.
Each had an ankle shackled to a pipe running the length of one wall. One was sitting with her arms up, wrists bound by a zip tie looping an overhead pipe. Her head hung between her upraised shoulders, snarled hair hiding her face.
Three pairs of empty handcuffs dangled from the lower pipe. A discarded zip tie lay below.
A half dozen filthy blankets were scattered across the floor. A bucket of urine and feces overflowed in one corner. The smell was unbelievable.
The girls stared at me with the same eyes I’d seen in online images. Blank, devoid of hope. Perhaps high on heroin.
I felt bile rise again. Fought it down.
“It’s all right,” I whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
The zip-tied girl raised her head. Otherwise, no one moved or spoke.
What to do? I couldn’t leave to call the cops. The girls might be taken while I was gone. I couldn’t chance that.
Stupid! Stupid! How had I forgotten my phone?
As I stood, undecided, one of the girls whispered to another. I didn’t understand the words, but the cadence seemed familiar.
I was about to speak again when the hum of a car engine froze my lips. I darted down the hall, rose on my toes, and peeked over a windowsill.
The glass was frosted and coated with grime. All I could see were twin beams slashing the darkness below.
The engine cut off. The headlights. A door slammed. Boots rattled up the rusted loading-dock steps.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
I raced back up the hall, slipped into the room, and signaled to the girls with an index finger over my lips. They stared. Not understanding? Too numb to react?
Heart rate in the stratosphere, I pressed my back to the wall, gun barrel up and as steady as I could keep it. Mind racing. I’d used one bullet. Had Rockett fired? How many remained in the chamber?
Boots sloshed and crunched across the warehouse floor. Stopped abruptly.
“What the fuck? Ray?”
A moment, then the footsteps charged upstairs.
My finger tightened on the trigger.
The footsteps hurried toward the door, paused, then, to my shock, retreated. I held my breath. Were they moving back down the stairs?
Silence enveloped the warehouse.
Thinking back, I still have no sense of how long I waited.
Pigeons cooed.
My heart thumped.
The car engine did not start up.
Was he gone? Checking Majerick? The girl? Calling in backup?
I had to do something.
I pictured the targets at the Bagram range. Conjured an image of the Triangle of Death.
Palms tight on the grip, I peeked around the door frame.
The blow knocked me sideways. My head cracked brick. My vision swam as my ass hit the floor.
A boot stomped hard on my hand. As pain shot up my arm, my wrist was viciously hyperextended. Something popped. The gun jerked from my fingers.
I screamed and lashed out with a foot. Connected. Heard the gun hit, then skitter. An echoing clink marked its impact with the floor below.
Scrabbling on all fours, I circled to the top of the stairs. Either my opponent was armed or he wasn’t. I had no choice. Bent low, I pelted down, taking two treads at a time.
My pursuer thundered behind.
I ran past Majerick, out the door, and down the loading-dock steps. The Chevy pickup had been joined by a Porsche 911.
I cut left past the vehicles and fired toward the breach in the fence, my pursuer close on my heels.
I almost made it.
Two yards from the developer’s sign, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I twisted and raked my nails over the skin. Saw parallel trails darken the word RIPPER.
The clamp relaxed a micron. I tore free, lurched forward, and ducked behind the sign.
The man shook the injured hand, clutched a gun in the other.
I hunkered low, pulse throbbing in my temples, my throat, my chest. Why didn’t he pull the trigger?
Then I heard a click.
No bullet pinged metal. Or tore through my flesh.
Another click. Still nothing.
Cursing, the man pocketed his weapon and started toward me.
I bolted for the fence. He was on me with breathtaking speed.
We went down and rolled. Scrap metal and rock jabbed my belly and ribs. Oily water splashed my face and soaked my clothing. Our frantic breathing obliterated all other sound.
Knowing nothing of hand-to-hand combat, I thrashed wildly, stoked on adrenaline and driven by panic.
A miracle. I broke free and began to scrabble toward the opening.
A hand clawed my foot. As my body jerked backward over the ground, my fingers closed on a rusty metal object. The thing was long and cylindrical, I guessed a section of pipe.
With a visceral snarl, I pivoted my torso and swung like a batter going for the upper deck.
And hit a homer.
The force of the impact dropped my attacker to his knees. His hands flew to his head.
I clambered to my feet, pipe gripped so tightly rust particles showered my arms.
My enemy’s face stood out pale in the moonlight. It didn’t surprise me.
“It’s over, lieutenant.”
Gross looked up, eyes unfocused, expression equidistant between rage and pain.
But I was in a bind. If I went through the fence he would be gone, maybe first dispatching the girls. Could I hold him at bay? I had to. Had to stall. Had to keep the bastard there until Slidell arrived. Whack him again? No, that could be murder!
“You had me fooled.” Between panting breaths.
Gross swayed on his knees, but said nothing.
“How’s it work?” I asked. “You buy the girls then fly them stateside using fake passports? Or do you skip the niceties and just ship them like cargo?”
Still no response.
“Semper fi, eh, John-Henry?”
Gross’s chin cocked up in surprise. His hands detached from his temples, slowly drifted down.
“The middle initial ‘H’ on the Article 32 charge sheet. Didn’t take a genius to tie you to Uncle John-Henry. You two should make his sister proud. She’s your mother, right? Marianna Story Gross?”
I had Pete to thank for that puzzle piece.
“Leave my mother out of this.” Slurred.
I rolled on, desperate for the sound of sirens.
“How’s it feel to dishonor the Corps?” Images flashed in my brain. Tattoos. Badges. “And Ripper. I assume you and Rockett hooked up during Desert Storm. Was the scheme his idea?”
“Rockett couldn’t scheme his way off a toilet seat.” Still woolly, but stronger.
“Was Rockett about to blow the whistle on his old task-force buddy? That why he had to go?”
Gross’s shoulders hitched. For a moment I thought he might laugh.
“What was Candy’s sin? She try to escape? Threaten to talk? Pain in the ass, so just run her down? Was Majerick your muscle on that one, too?”
“Aren’t you the fucking hotshot. Got all the answers.”
I kept talking, and, though my wrist was on fire, tightened my grip on the pipe.
“That why you killed the kid at Sheyn Bagh?”
“Collateral damage.”
“Aqsaee came at you, all right. But not as an insurgent. He wanted to confront you about Ara. That’s what he yelled, right? Ara, not Allah. I guess Eggers’s hearing it wrong helped you with your story.”
“Eggers is a jackass.”
“Aqsaee identified you as the man who stole Ara. He would have told the village elders.”
Remembering the Polaroid in my backpack, my loathing burned more fiercely.
“Why Ara? Why not Khandan or Mahtab or Laila or Taahira? Or were they in the crosshairs, too, you miserable sonofabitch.”
“Girls have shit going for them over there.” Cold now. Controlled. I again tightened my grip.
“And you were going to make the world their dance floor.”
Gross brought one knee up and planted his foot. Swayed. Steadied himself.
I raised the pipe. “One move and I bash in your skull.”
Our eyes locked. Gone was any trace of the falsely accused war hero. Before me was a calculating predator.
Several beats, then Gross made his move. Too slow, too obvious. I read it and sidestepped his kick. Thrown off balance, Gross stumbled, then spun to face me.
I raised the pipe, ready to swing harder than I’ve ever swung in my life. But my action was also signaled. Gross lifted his forearms to parry the blow.
I checked my motion, dropped the pipe low, and brought it up in his crotch with all the power I could muster.
Gross doubled over.
Giving me time.
I hammered his shins. His knee caps.
Gross dropped and curled fetal.
I stepped close and raised the pipe over his head.
My heart pounded. My breath wheezed in jagged gulps.
A thin wail penetrated the pandemonium in my ears and chest.
I stood, weapon poised, muscles flexed.
The wailing separated into sirens.
Reason overrode primal fury.
Or maybe I knew help was at hand.
I did not bring the pipe down.
Shortly, cruisers screamed up to the fence. Doors slammed. Lights pulsed red and blue on the house of horror at my back.
EPILOGUE
October is schizophrenic in Charlotte. One day you’re in shirtsleeves. The next you’re pulling on jacket and gloves.
The cold arrived on Sunday. It was a bitch bringing plants inside one-handed.
Monday I decided to build a fire. After much clumsy choreography, flames danced behind the antique brass screen shielding the hearth. The parlor smelled faintly of smoke and pine.
I’d done my duty in the wee hours of Friday morning. Seated in the back of a cruiser, I’d answered a barrage of questions from Slidell, a few from reporters who’d caught word via police-band receivers. I’d even given Allison Stallings a heads-up.
I’d seen Gross and his victims placed aboard ambulances. Heard Slidell contact headquarters to ensure that the girls were met by interpreters and SANE nurses. Watched Majerick and Rockett loaded into an ME van. Then, at Slidell’s insistence, I’d accepted a ride to the emergency department at CMC.
Thanks to Skinny’s phone bluster, I was treated immediately. X-rays revealed a broken scaphoid and a linear fracture of the distal radial border in my right wrist. The ED doc was astounded at my tale of hefting a pipe. I went home in a thumb spica splint the size of a mallet.
Perhaps he knew the strength of the painkillers I’d been issued. Perhaps he was busy grilling Story and Gross. Slidell gave me the weekend before coming to visit. Bearing a floral arrangement the size of an offshore rig.
In the intervening days Slidell had learned the following.
The bullet Larabee dug from Rockett’s brain was fired from Majerick’s gun. So were the two dug from his gut, and one dug from the brick behind him.
The bullet in Majerick needed no explanation. I would not be charged. The shoot had been ruled self-defense, and extremely lucky.
Luck was with me twice, actually. Once when I pulled the trigger. Once when Gross did. He’d scooped up Majerick’s gun while chasing me from the warehouse. The magazine wasn’t full when Majerick arrived. He’d emptied it while shooting Rockett.
Raids on the other SayDo massage parlors had turned up eleven more girls, all Afghan. Those from the NoDa operation were found in the basement of a closed beauty parlor, in conditions similar to those at the South End warehouse.
None of the girls spoke English. None had a legitimate visa or passport. Their ages appeared to range from thirteen to seventeen. All were now in the custody of ICE.
The girl Majerick was beating when I surprised him was named Huma. Little Bird. She came from a village not far from Sheyn Bagh. Huma had contusions, abrasions, and a broken nose, but was doing well.
Archer Story had been arrested and charged with conspiracy to commit murder as to both Ara and Rosalie D’Ostillo, with maintaining establishments for prostitution, and with promoting the prostitution of minors. He was also charged with multiple counts of human trafficking.
John-Henry Gross was charged with all of those offenses, plus attempted murder as to me.
The madams of all four establishments were charged with participating in the prostitution of minors and with human trafficking.
North Carolina statutes state that an individual commits the offense of human trafficking by knowingly recruiting, enticing, harboring, transporting, providing, or obtaining by any means a person to be held in involuntary or sexual servitude.
If the person is a minor, that constitutes a class C felony. At forty years per offense times at least sixteen victims, the defendants were looking at 640 years just on the trafficking counts. No wonder they were all scrambling to make deals. Story and the madams were singing like canaries on crack.
Story was claiming ignorance of any knowledge of trafficking or prostitution. His lawyers were proposing full cooperation in return for a sentence not to exceed fifteen years. Mrs. Tarzec and the other madams were offering guilty pleas in exchange for maximum sentences of eight years.
Gross’s attorney had approached the DA about a plea to reduced charges. The DA wasn’t biting.
“Will any of the girls testify?” I asked.
Slidell snorted. “They’re so freaked they won’t even raise their eyeballs when I’m talking to them.”
“But Majerick is dead and Gross is behind bars.”
“The pigfucks kept them cowed by threatening harm to their families. Majerick made the rounds with your morgue shot of Ara and Majerick’s pic of D’Ostillo. Said if anyone tried to run or slack off they’d get the same.”
“Majerick was citizenjustice?”
“Ee-yuh. Smarmy little bastard was watching from a truck outside the taquería. He dimed Gross to report that D’Ostillo was talking to us. Gross ordered her taken out in a way that would impress.”
“D’Ostillo saw Majerick with Ara and the other girls.”
Slidell nodded glumly.
“More coffee?”
&nb
sp; “You able to pour with that sledgehammer you got for a mitt?”
“Funny. Three sugars, right?”
I went to the kitchen, returned, and handed Slidell his refill.
“Did that bird just tell me to kiss its ass?”
Charlie was raised in a brothel, rescued by Ryan, and gifted to me following the raid. His was not your standard “pretty bird” repertoire. I didn’t feel up to explaining that to Slidell.
“Why kill Ara?” I asked, resuming my seat.
“Majerick was driving her to the joint in NoDa. The version he gave Story was that she jumped from the truck. Archer was shocked when he learned about the accident. After the fact, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Majerick was violent and had a hair-trigger temper. When the kid rebelled, he probably lost it and ran her down.”
I pictured an imp in a group of six, holding mischievous fingers above her friend’s head. Knew it was true. Knew Ara had possessed the spirit to resist.
“And the monster just left her there.”
“Majerick told Story there was too much traffic to collect the body without being seen. And no chance he’d take her to a hospital, anyway.”
I recalled the empty stretch on which Ara had died. Felt tears start to form. Slidell’s question brought me back from the brink.
“How’d you finger Gross for the doer? He was never on our radar.”
“His tattoo.”
Slidell’s brows floated up in question.
“I saw it at the Article 32 hearing at Camp Lejeune. But only part of the lower half, below his cuff, so I got it wrong. I thought it said RIP, meaning rest in peace.”
“No better friend, no worse enemy.”
It surprised me that Slidell knew a Corps slogan.
“Except Gross is a disgrace to the military,” I said.
“Fuckin’ A. He ain’t what marines are about.”
I wondered if Slidell had history with the Corps unknown to me. Was sure I wouldn’t ask.
“Anyway, I saw the tattoo again in the tavern snapshot of John-Henry Story and Dom Rockett, but it didn’t register. The image was reflected in a mirror, so everything was reversed. When I was going over photos Thursday night, it suddenly clicked. I’d seen the Task Force Ripper patch hanging in Rockett’s living room. RIP. Ripper. Gross was the guy shooting the pic. That connected him to Rockett and Story.”